


Terms

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Bard asks Thranduil to be more reasonable.





	Terms

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for onniilona’s “Barduil: no. 19 [Compromise]” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/163120603835/prompt-list-4).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When Bard knocks on the wooden doors of Thranduil’s guest quarters, his first thought is one of _guilt_ —he’s seen the grand halls of the Woodland Realm, and he knows well how much more than this King Thranduil deserves. He wishes he could deliver it. But his rebuilt Dale is still new, tentative, and even in its olden days of glory, it could never match the splendor of the elves. He’s given Thranduil the best chambers he could find, seated at the top of the largest surviving building, the one his own children occupy only one floor below. But it’s not _enough_.

Thranduil answers the door eventually, and Bard isn’t surprised to see a glass of wine in his other hand. It shines crimson-purple in the low light of the evening’s candles, dark against the clear glass and the paleness of Thranduil’s slender fingers. The guards that stand outside his doors make no move, not even to turn their heads or lift a brow, as Bard slips inside. Thranduil holds the door out enough for it, then closes them up again, sealing the two of them in privacy.

For a moment, Bard forgets what he came for. Thranduil makes no complaint about the disrepair of the room he’s in, but seeing him in person highlights how very much he belongs in better places. Seeing him takes Bard’s breath away. It always does. The first time Bard saw Thranduil, high on his powerful stead in sleek silver armour, Bard couldn’t think. His dreams have been haunted since. And Thranduil is just as handsome now, dressed in long, forest-green robes, with glittering rings about his fingers and his elegant crown of branches threaded through his white-gold hair. He’s the picture of Elven beauty, of everything Bard’s ever wanted, and still was even back before he knew what it was that his life was missing. It still misses Thranduil. And having Thranduil near him again is intoxicating, something he has to fight against, because he came to Thranduil’s quarters with another purpose.

He forces himself to clear his throat and announce, as stern as he can manage, “You were unduly difficult today.”

Thranduil lifts one dark brow, contrasting with his star-light hair, and answers, “ _I_ was?” While he waits for Bard’s explanation, he takes a wry sip of his wine. 

He’s as infuriating as he is alluring, sometimes. There were moments during the conference were Bard was consumed with that—where he felt the dwarves’ frustration just as keenly. When they’re alone, it’s harder to summon that anger. He still pushes: “Yes. They asked too much, I understand. But surely you could stand to compromise with them.”

“Compromise,” Thranduil snorts, like the word itself is a joke, at least in relation to dwarves. He rolls his eyes and swirls his drink about his glass, and the exasperation would look almost strange on the ethereal charm of an elf, if it weren’t for that fact that Thranduil makes _everything_ look natural and right. He drawls in idle accusation, “It is hardly that when your proposal would entirely benefit Dale, with no drawbacks for you.”

“I meant with the dwarves,” Bard steadfast returns. “I didn’t call this conference to give you a list of _my_ demands, but to stabilize the region for all of us. Trust me, there was a lot more I could ask for. But my proposal was meant to satisfy _both_ of you.”

Thranduil, of course, could never be truly satisfied by any dealings with the dwarves. Bard isn’t too naïve to know that. But he’d hoped Thranduil would be a little more tolerant, and for several lengthy minutes, he holds Thranduil’s stoic gaze.

Surprisingly, Thranduil is the one to break away first. His head lulls aside, as though more interested in the stars than Bard’s words. He drifts towards the window to stand before the glass, looking out over the city. Even at this late hour, it’s bustling—the people are tired, but there are _always_ things to do. He looks down about them as he speaks, voice low and vaguely contemplative. “Still, it will benefit them far more than me. Allowing them passage through my realm will be a nightmare for my people, even if they keep to such rules as a limit of travelers and constant monitoring. I doubt they will actually abide by any promises to seek my permission before hunting any animal or felling any tree. My woods have been decimated before, and dwarves have nothing to offer it. I have nothing to gain from such concessions.”

Bard had anticipated that. And future allies don’t seem to be much argument to Thranduil, at least when those allies are dwarves. When the quiet after Thranduil’s words has stretched long enough, Bard decides it’s a silent challenge for _him_ to persuade Thranduil otherwise. 

So he approaches the window, coming closer to Thranduil’s side than he would to any other. Though Thranduil’s white-blue eyes are lost in the distance, Bard looks hard into them, telling Thranduil softly, “You will gain my gratitude.”

Thranduil turns back to him. 

Thranduil glances once down his body as though sizing him up, even though Thranduil knows him intimately from head to foot, and then Thranduil’s gaze bores into his eyes, digging down right to his soul. Bard withstands it. 

Then he adds, “I know you have no respect for dwarves. But I hope you have respect for _me_ , and for what I think is best. We fought beside each other once. I ask for your aid once more.” Bard pauses, but Thranduil says nothing in the interim, even though Bard’s sure he _knows_ what Bard next admits: “Dale needs this, Thranduil. We need trade with the dwarves to survive. And most come from the west now. If they will not pay you, then I will, however I might. Anything you ask of me that is in my power, I will grant to you, if only you will _help us_.”

And, in truth, there isn’t much value in his offer—because everything he had was already Thranduil’s, if he ever even had anything Thranduil could want at all. 

Thranduil finally quirks a small smile, one that seems to lighten the entire room and simultaneously spike the temperature. He murmurs coyly, “You must think yourself quite handsome indeed, if you think a few nights here with you are worth such a price.”

Even though Bard tries to stay serious, he can’t fight off his grin, and he can feel his cheeks heating at just the thought. If anything, Thranduil is the one worth mountains of treasure, even if it were only for _one_ night. He counters, “I have more to offer than that.”

Thranduil ups the stakes dramatically, asking, “Will you then wed me as I asked, and return to the Woodland Realm with me?”

The smile disappears from Bard’s face, and he answers quietly, “You know I cannot do that.” Even though he _wants_ to. At least, a part of him does. Desperately. When Thranduil first asked it of him, standing out in the forest together beneath the glowing stars, his heart felt like it would burst. 

But he has children. And now he has a city. Too many rely on him, and he can’t afford to traipse away only for _love_. Thranduil, at least, can understand that. He reaches down to wrap his free hand around Bard’s, slender fingers sliding between his, and Bard embraces the warmth when they interlock. 

Thranduil sets his wine on the windowsill, and he turns to Bard completely. When he talks, his voice is smooth, deep, but lilts like song and whispers like the wind, on another level than the kind of mortal tongue that Bard’s used to. Thranduil tells him, “Not now, perhaps. But it will not always be so. Your children will grow, as mine has, to face the world without you, and they will take better care of the people of Dale than you could ever hope for. The will have the benefit of your knowledge and your love, but they will not always need you. You will grow old one day, Bard, too old to be of use in mortal lands, and too soon for me to bear. But you need not fade from that. When you have grown tired of this—perhaps a little grey and more wrinkled than I should like—” Thranduil pauses with a gentle smile at Bard’s quiet chuckle, then finishes, “you should sail west with me.” 

The laughter dies. Bard’s heart feels like it’s stopped, like it’s leapt high into his throat and gotten caught there. 

He admits after a long moment, though he finds it difficult to think at all, “I did not think mortals could do that.”

“They cannot,” Thranduil replies, his grin now sly and smooth, “on their own, at least. But in the arms of an Elven King, they would be welcomed.”

Bard shakes his head. It’s all too much, and he doesn’t know what to say. Thranduil’s told him of the far shores, in old songs and vague stories, but he doesn’t _understand_ , not really. Yet he knows enough to see that he’s been offered _paradise_ : the land of the gods, beyond anything a Man like him could dream of, let alone deserve. He feels... torn. 

Because that would replace the final years he could spend with his children. And he couldn’t bring them, couldn’t even ask them, nor would they want to—they’ll inherit Dale from him, and they love it more than he does, for their hearts aren’t already intertwined with elves’. 

But at the same time, Thranduil long ago stole his heart, and he can’t bring himself to say no to what Thranduil offers. 

So he answers only what he can: “I will have to think on it.”

Thranduil smiles genuinely, compassionately—something the dwarves would never believe, but Bard knows all sides of this gorgeous man. Thranduil murmurs, “I consider _that_ a fair compromise.” Bard grins, bidding more, and Thranduil sighs dramatically, “Very well. I will do so with the dwarves.” 

Bard would thank him. But Thranduil’s already ducked closer, and Bard’s mouth is captured in a kiss, one harsh and swift that tastes of wine and _want_ , one Bard eagerly returns.

Their lips don’t part long, but they pause just enough for Thranduil to purr, “In the meantime, I do expect at least those few nights of you.”

Bard breathes, “Agreed,” and sucks Thranduil into another kiss.


End file.
